


elu drabble dump

by strangeparties



Series: elu rainbows [2]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Innuendo, Lots and lots of innuendo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeparties/pseuds/strangeparties
Summary: all written for the elu fluff challenge!1. eliott fixes leaky pipes, lucas is turned on; canon-compliant2. eliott keeps going to the ER for dumb injuries to see dr. lallemant; au3. lucas surprises eliott with a pet bunny; canon-compliant4. tinder au where lucas swipes left on eliott, not realizing eliott's sitting next to him
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Series: elu rainbows [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672108
Comments: 8
Kudos: 148





	elu drabble dump

**Author's Note:**

> there's a challenge over at tumblr where you're supposed to write 100 words of elu fluff if someone messages you the 🌈 emoji. from my end, this was the result, for better or worse. to anyone interested, i'm compiling here in this one post for easier reading!
> 
> no continuations to any of these; they're meant to stand on their own (read: i lack the energy or talent to flesh them out) :)
> 
> thank you to: the lovely @lifeisevak for starting this challenge over at tumblr, and to all of you who liked and rb-ed! to everyone reading here on ao3 and tumblr: stay safe and please take care of yourselves!

1.

They both knew the apartment they’d moved into, while airy and spacious, isn’t exactly the epitome of urban elegance. Eliott once called it a ‘harmonious confluence of opposites’: industrial and charming, tough and soft. Lucas, however, is a tad more given to be straightforward, saying the building probably had pipes built pre-revolution. He’d declare that every scratch, scrape, and strain on their already pockmarked floors and walls were being inflicted directly by ghosts roaming at night. Eliott knows it’s just the apartment undergoing the pummelings of daily life, but Lucas is so damn cute when he’s all owl-eyed and half-scared. He ends up indulging way too much than what was probably advisable for Lucas’s sense of spatial security.

The tyranny of assured comfort soon catches up on Eliott with a leaky vengeance. Granted, the old pipes in the building made a lot of noise sometimes, but that isn’t a sound either of them are used to. They’re both up and out of bed to investigate, Lucas leading the way.

“Ughhh! Eliott!” Lucas shrieks, skidding to an abrupt halt as water rushes over his bare toes. Eliott’s mouth drops open as he sees the floor beneath the sink flooded.

“Oh, wow,” is all he says, dumbstruck.

“I told you so,” Lucas whines. “We have to call a plumber. Would you know—“

“No, no. It’s okay. I can handle it,” Eliott assures, grasping a comforting hand on Lucas’s shoulder.

Lucas’s brows raise slightly in disbelief, like he just misheard. “Oh… kay. Since when did you learn how to clean pipes?”

Eliott grins, a twinkle in his eye. He swoops in for the kill. “Well, I—“

Lucas groans, holding up a hand to stop him. “Nope. No. I gave you an opening and you took it. That was all on me.”

Eliott wraps his arms around Lucas’s squirming shoulders, squishing him into his chest. He leans in to whisper, “What’s wrong with saying I really enjoyed cleaning your pipes yesterday night—ow!“

Fifteen minutes later, Lucas’s legs hang from the kitchen counter as he watches Eliott kneel under the sink to try and fix the leak, his dad’s worn old toolbox beside him. Eliott’s changed into loose dark sweatpants that he doesn’t mind getting wet. Along with a black tank top that’s two threads away from falling loose with age, it isn’t peak fashion but it’ll have get the job done. He’s already got sweat patches darkening around his neckline and on his lower back.

“So according to the forums I looked at when I was all confused before, they may have mentioned this to be one of the tropes in those cliche porn videos,” Lucas begins, casual like he’s talking about the weather. “But honestly, seeing you get all sweaty and dirty? All capable and handy? It’s doing it for me, Eliott. I mean, I didn’t even know you knew how to fix sinks.”

Through the grime and gunk, Eliott finds himself smirking up at Lucas. “Love to know I can still surprise you after a year of dating. That’s doing it for me.”

He rummages in the tool bag for a tube of sealant and quickly seals up the crack, stopping most of the remaining water from gushing out. He then grabs a roll of tape.

“Tape? Really?” Lucas says from above.

“Yep,” Eliott says over his shoulder. “We’ll probably have to get a new pipe and fit it within the day, but this will hold for now.”

Lucas nods, clearly impressed. “You’re the expert, apparently. And you did such a great job sealing the cracks— I just gave you an opening again, didn’t I?”

Eliott winks, biting his lip against a salacious grin. He doesn’t miss Lucas’s eyes raking over his arms and chest. “I’ll take any opening you give me, baby,” he replies, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“Oh, god, you are terrible.” Lucas rolls his eyes, failing to hide his amusement.

“You’re the one tossing me all the openings. Pun intended.” Eliott’s expression turns devious as he stands up and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“Hm? What was that?” Lucas answers, sounding genuinely distracted as Eliott slowly pulls his tank top off, abs flexing deliciously. He balls the shirt up and pats his face before tossing it aside. “I think I may now have some sort of a competency kink. Either that or I’m just really hot for gross tanks on beautiful guys.”

.

2.

The first time he goes into the emergency room had been for the dumbest accident he’d ever had in his twenty-something years of living. It had been a windy day, and he’d been lounging outside a Starbucks with Sofiane and Idriss, when a butterfly flies - no, _careens_ \- right smack into his eyes. In what was retrospectively an uncalled for attempt at deflecting a faultless creature of god, he hits himself in the face with a glass frappucino bottle, giving himself both a black eye and a rapidly purpling bruise right smack in the center of his forehead. From afar, it resembled a target screaming _THIS IDIOT HERE HIT HIMSELF WITH A STARBUCKS BOTTLE_.

Not one of his best moments. He grumbles just a little when Idriss and Sofiane stop laughing long enough to drag him along and past the doors to the ER.

It was only an attending nurse at first, a middle-aged woman who’s obviously Not Having It. “Can you tell me what happened?” she prompts, shining a light into Eliott’s eyes.

“I may be dying,” Eliott groans the same time Sofiane explains in a rush, “He hit his head on a Starbucks glass bottle.”

A mix of hard judgment and Christ Almighty What Did I Do To Deserve This impatience crosses over the nurse’s wrinkled visage. Just when she’s about to open her mouth and probably prescribe Eliott some painkillers and a good hard night’s reflection of why he’s wasting some heath professional’s time, another nurse comes in to call his too nice and empathic nurse in for a more urgent case, something about one of the surgeons needing assistance with a guy who literally shot himself in the foot.

“I’ll call in someone else for you. You’re in luck,” the nurse says. “Nurse Caron said Dr. Lallemant’s just finished with another patient. Though I don’t expect he’ll diagnose you with anything too drastic. A minor head bump, this one.”

Eliott figures Dr. Lallemant must be like one of those geriatric consultants he sees hanging around hospitals in Grey’s Anatomy. Of course he’s proven dead wrong when an actual vision from heaven pushes the curtains open and peers down at Eliott with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. The badge on his white coat reads _LUCAS LALLEMANT, M.D._ in red embossed letters. Even through the vicious pounding in his head, getting stronger with every second he’s vertical, Eliott can see Dr. Lallemant looks quite young and _very_ cute.

Most tellingly, Dr. Lallemant sounds like he’s speaking a mix of French, Spanish and whatever dialect angels in heavens spoke. Angel-ese, maybe? Cherub-ic?

“Wow. Cherub-ic,” Eliott says with a giggle as a light hand attempts to smoothen his hair flat over his head. Of course, that’s the moment his brain-to-mouth filter stops functioning. “Has anyone told you you’re really, really, really pretty?”

Sofiane and Idriss dissolve into snickers beside him. Dr. Lallemant just smiles, soft around the edges. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions. Is that okay, Mr. Demaury?”

“Please,” Eliott says. Maybe this head injury isn’t as life-threatening as he thought; the pain is head is already receding just from hearing his doctor’s deeply comforting voice. “And then I’d ask you a few of my own after. Like, say, go out with me sometime?”

“Oh, damn,” Idriss guffaws, the same time Sofiane exclaims, “Eli, now’s not the time to flirt with your doctor!”

“I know you probably get marriage proposals on the daily, but maybe we can give us a try when this face isn’t looking so busted,” Eliott continues, much to Idriss’s epic amusement, if him doubling over and trying to hold his laughter in is any indication.

Dr. Lallemant — Lucas — keeps his expression admirably neutral, but a ghost of a smile lingers on the corners of his lips. “I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Demaury. I assure you your face looks fine, it’ll just be a bruise. I’ll get something for you then I’ll see if I can send you on your way.”

“Did you hear that? He said my face was fine,” Eliott says proudly to Sofiane (face firmly lodged in palm) and Idriss (gut trying not to explode from the giggles).

Three weeks, a stubbed toe and two deliberately stapled fingers later (Lucas still hasn’t shown any judgment even for that one; Eliott counts it as a win), he’s in ER again, this time for a dark purple bruise on his right cheek. There’s a sharp ache coursing through his molars, and Lucas is looking just as beautiful as when they first met. His blue eyes are so clear Eliott can almost see himself in them.

“I have to ask, Mr. Demaury,” Lucas says gravely, concern etched on his face. It’s a hundred and one kinds of adorable. Appropriate thoughts while in the ER getting treated for a bruise. “I hope you don’t mind. This is the fourth time you’ve come back to the ER in three weeks. Is everything okay at home?”

Eliott settles for the ever-versatile “Uhhh.”

“I don’t mean to presume. I’d just like to get to the bottom of this,” Lucas says, going quiet as he surveys Eliott’s entire face. His fingers are warm and featherlight when he traces them over Eliott’s bruise. The touch of an angel.

Eliott really can’t say it’s because he tripped over the carpet and banged his head on the doorknob in a rush for the pizza delivery guy. And maybe he did it on purpose so he’d have an excuse to see Dr. Lallemant the mad cute resident at the Hospital three blocks away from his and Idriss’s apartment. However, he knows he needs to explain how he got this latest injury in detail. Better than weaving a fantastical tale of himself getting heroically beaten up by street gangs when trying to retrieve some poor harried woman’s purse, he instead settles for the truth.

“Sorry, I know I can be really clumsy,” he scrambles to explain as Lucas writes a note on his clipboard. “I swear I’m not in some weird fight club, nor do I do self-harm or anything extreme.”

“That’s a relief.” Lucas’s blue eyes are sparkling, but instead of outrage all Eliott sees is gentleness and a bit of mischief. “And here I thought were injuring yourself on purpose just to get into the ER to see me.”

“Uh, about that…”

“Oh, I know,” Lucas sighs at Eliott with the force of ten accumulated sighs, like one just isn’t enough to express his exasperation. There’s a bit of pink on his cheeks. “You’re about as subtle as a glass bottle straight to the head, Mr. Demaury.”

“Eliott.”

“Okay, Eliott. And no, I’ve never gotten a proposal. At least not as forward as yours,” Lucas says with a slight chuckle. “Believe me, I was just trying my best not to laugh the first time you were in here.”

Eliott frowns, clutching at his heart. A little dramatic, but his bruise actually hurts, okay? “So, is that a no? To me asking you out, I mean.”

Lucas bites his lip. The pink on his cheeks has bloomed to an even darker red, making him look particularly fetching. Eliott tries not to be distracted. “You have no internal head injuries, Eliott. I think you can figure out the answer to that by yourself.”

.

3.

Throughout their six-odd months of domestic bliss, Eliott has made no secret of his desire for a pet. Some nights while they lay naked in bed together, Lucas’s head pillowed on Eliott’s chest, Eliott would open up instagram, gazing raptly at fluffy exotic shorthairs pawing at rugs, chocolate-colored border collies chasing its own tails, guinea pigs exercising in hamster wheels. He’d even come across a ball python once on the ‘explore’ page and had sat up excitedly to show Lucas its dark, beady eyes and forked tongue flicking lazily through the air. It had the diameter of a garden hose and looked like it could choke Lucas in his sleep.

“He’s so cute,” Eliott coos at his phone like he’s coaxing the snake to unfurl from the screen and slither onto his wrist. Lucas imagines the snake having a penchant for coiling all twenty inches of itself around Eliott’s face and neck, like an emotional support scarf. “I bet he’s the type that likes belly rubs.”

“Why would satan’s legless lizard want belly rubs?” Lucas says incredulously, though it’s muffled on Eliott’s chest.

Eliott gasps, offended. “Lucas, they’re majestic and beautiful! A lot like…” A hand resting over Lucas’s nape brushes over the back of his throat. “Someone I know—“

Lucas sits up abruptly, glaring. “You did not just compare me to a snake.” He sniffs petulantly, plopping back down this time on Eliott’s bicep. “And here I thought being called herisson was already embarrassing enough to explain.”

“Relax, baby. I’m just pointing out your similar good qualities,” Eliott placates with a low chuckle. “Besides, you like herisson.”

Lucas pouts. “I do. But I’ll only accept that insofar as my fursona’s concerned, Eli.”

The timbre of Eliott’s response - a loud, vibrating laugh - runs along Lucas’s chest which is now pressed against Eliott’s shoulder. It almost makes Lucas shiver. “Okay, no comparisons. A different pet, then. Maybe the right one will come to us in a dream.”

Turns out, it doesn’t come to them in a dream. Rather, it comes in the form a rather humongous rabbit living in Basile’s grandfather’s farm. Really, even the word ‘rabbit’ feels like an understatement. Rabbits are supposed to be tiny, cute, and fluffy. Fifi’s essentially the Godzilla of hares. A thrilled Eliott scoops Fifi into Lucas’s arms and the latter nearly topples over. They don’t get to take Fifi home, though - not because Fifi was now unwittingly languishing in everyone’s digestive tracts, but because Basile’s grandfather intended to enter him into some sort of blue ribbon competition. Simultaneous relief and sadness crosses over Eliott’s face then, and Lucas resolves to take a trip to the pet store when they get back.

Three weeks later, after the whole debacle with Arthur is settled, Lucas now has more time to do stuff that for once doesn’t involve his friends. He peers carefully at a little rabbit inside its cage, its fur a glossy brown, nose twitching as though sensing Lucas’s skepticism.

“Does it bite?” Lucas asks the attendant. He really hopes he doesn’t have to return it; he’s saved up all he could from his part-time job as a library assistant to be able to afford a bunny and its accoutrements - a cage, food for at least two weeks, grooming supplies, the works. The things he does for love.

“No,” the attendant says, in the sort of soothing voice someone might use when speaking to a person who has one day to live. “She only nips to get attention. Though bunnies sometimes get quite aggressive and territorial, but you have nothing to worry about with this one. She’s very friendly.”

“I’ll take it— her.”

The next morning, Lucas is just getting out of the bathroom to catch some extra z’s when Eliott finds the bunny. He went straight to bed last night after a long shift at the video store, so Lucas finds it understandable how he hasn’t noticed the bunny sleeping in the corner. Eliott’s just in his boxers, having dragged himself out of bed to make himself some coffee, one of the few things he’s allowed to make in the kitchen. Before Lucas can say anything through his sleep-addled haze, something soft brushes against Eliott’s feet and he jumps.

“Oh, shit, how did you get out?” Lucas grumbles, padding over. She’s hiding under the fridge, her little brown ears pressed to its head in fright. “Ugh, she was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Hey there, little guy. It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” Eliott coos, coercing her nearer. It flicks an annoyed ear but nonetheless comes forward, sniffing at Eliott’s fingertips. Eliott bundles her in his arms, rubbing the soft fur with nearly unprecedented delight.

“Baby. Oh, my love.” Eliott might still be talking to the bunny, but. Oh. He’s looking at Lucas. “He’s adorable, I love him already. Thank you. You’re the absolute sweetest, you know that?”

Lucas snorts, but he can’t help the pleased little smile as he blindly gropes to pet the bunny. He goes up on tiptoes to give Eliott a morning kiss, mindful of the soft bundle between them. “You’re welcome. And it’s a she. Her name’s Brownie, but it’s only like a temporary name. You can rename her if you want.”

“Brownie?” Eliott tries to stifle a laugh into Brownie’s fur, to no avail. “Actually, the more I think about, the more I like it.”

“Sometimes simple is best,” Lucas reasons, sagely. “And, okay, maybe my naming skills won’t be winning prizes anytime soon, but I didn’t want to name her Fifi Deux or Deufi. I know the wound’s still sorta fresh. And at least this one’s not the size of a small planet.”

Speaking of wounds, Brownie pushes herself up out of Eliott’s arms and bites at Lucas’s finger when Lucas attempts to lean in for a second kiss.

“I thought you liked me,” Lucas says, affronted. Eliott laughs at Lucas’s indignation, beginning as a stupid little giggle and morphing into full-on cracking up. “Are you already getting territorial?” Not that Lucas could blame her. Eliott just had the sort of aura that provoked that sorta thing; Lucas could very well relate, if the death glares he gave to girls who stared at Eliott on the street could kill, he’d be in jail for unintentional homicide maybe a hundred times over by now.

Brownie flicks at ear at Lucas in response, which is maybe the bunny equivalent to The Finger.

Eliott’s shit-eating grin is half-smug, half-fond. “So I know you said you didn’t want any more animal comparisons, but I think being possessive and territorial is pretty much—“

“Don’t start. Just. Don’t.”

.

4.

His flight back to Paris from Incheon Airport is delayed on account of weather, a cheery sun-drenched mother of all afternoons giving way to its muggy, rainy, thunder-stricken stepsister at the end of July. He should have known; his tour guide Sejung had warned him the wind could get so strong it could whip craters into his face. Lucas had made a run for the airport gates then; barely five seconds in and he already needs to rearrange his useless mop of wild hair into something that wouldn’t get him thrown out by Seoul immigration for vagrancy.

He’s camping out on the floor, watching similarly situated passengers tromp through. Some were raising their voices at those poor airline representatives at the check-in; some mournfully checking the ever-shuffling flight board; and some throbbing with frustration, ready to spend the night in sterile purgatory, preferably with a glass of scotch to soothe the day’s aches away. The tide of people ebbs, flows, rushes out, a swinging door of apparitions floating one after the other, never to stay in one place.

He lifts his forgotten cup to his lips; the coffee has gone lukewarm. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Between juggling his iPad and the coffee cup, it takes a bit of maneuvering to extract it. When he checks, it turns out to be a _You have a Super Like!_ notification from Tinder. Fuck, he doesn’t even remember the last time he’s opened Tinder. The last time he’s on the app, a really hot guy with both horrendous French and English was messaging him.

“He’s really hot, what do I do,” he’d moaned to his friends one night at a bar in Le Marais, because he didn’t want to fuck a Neanderthal who took excessive liberties with the rules of grammar.

“So? You’re looking to blow the guy, not edit his drafts,” Arthur had deadpanned, unimpressed, ever the voice of Lucas’s common sense. Still, he’d been sufficiently turned off (and distracted by Yann pulling him over to wingman) that he’d forgotten all about it.

Months later, he’s spent nearly three weeks in Seoul batting for the half-formed, harebrained ideas of his authors, handholding Korean-to-French translators, and wrangling extensions from both local and Parisian publishers like water from rocks.

The only time he’s out on a date, it’s in some vapoury neon room in Itaewon with a closeted pop singer that one of his pet authors introduces at a press event. _I’m an idol, my agency can’t find out_ , the guy says in stilted English, and Lucas has to type a quick 2-second google for ‘Korean idol’ to grasp the full complexity of the term — not the most ideal when said closet case is currently attempting to neck you like an overgrown, overeager mosquito. Lucas has to say: not the best technique he’s encountered in his twenty-five years of transient relationships.

Dating standards, however, give way to idle curiosity and abject boredom. He swipes through the screen, wanting to see the poor guy who’d probably moved their finger a fraction too high when trying to swipe left on him. Except - the guy doesn’t look like he’s trying at all. The profile photo looks a little blurry at the edges; he looks unposed compared to most people. He’s facing a mural of what looks like an explosion of colour.

Oh, and it’s just a naked back. A nice one, muscles rippling over golden skin, but still just a back. And his hair, a full head of golden brunette hair that has him wondering for a split second what it would be like to run his fingers all over it.

And then, the kicker: _Want this Jackson Poll-cock 🍆 in your Andy War-hole 🍑 ? Message for deets 😉_

“Guys can only have bios like this if they actually have face value,” Lucas mutters, cringing. He violently swipes left, shuddering in the aftermath.

“Oh, oof.” There’s warmth emanating from behind him as someone leans closer, inaudible to anyone else but Lucas. And he’s speaking in Lucas’s native Parisian accent, all low, breathy syllables and rolling vowels. “Hard pass on that one, huh?”

Lucas whips his head around, then he feels heat climb up his neck and up his ears as he stares. There’s a guy sitting behind him, arms crossed. His roguish grin is complemented by the twinkle of a silver stud in his ear, several rings adorning both hands, and the white of his teeth. His crown of thick, brown hair is eerily similar to the colour of the leather bomber he’s wearing over a plain white t-shirt. He’s so handsome it makes Lucas do several double-takes.

The pink of Lucas’s cheeks diffuses the harshness of his disgruntled face. “Wha— who— am I supposed to know you?”

“Me?” the guy asks, although his smile is all-knowing and a tad sheepish. “I may have been the owner of the profile you were just looking at.”

Lucas blinks, takes a moment to regain his bearings, because what. “You?”

“Yeah. I don’t blame you for swiping left, though. My friends made the account and wrote the bio.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. It's downright strange to see someone who looked like they did car commercials in Japan for a living go from undaunted to self-conscious at the drop of a hat.

“I just— I was looking at the app since a lot of us are stuck here for the time being. I saw you were less than 1 km. away — not a very accurate estimate since you’re maybe less than a foot away, really — and decided to go for it. You’re, um, really beautiful. I especially like the, um—” He flaps his arms once, looking like a chicken attempting flight. “The jumping photo. The second photo in your profile. You can uh, spread your legs real wide. Wait, no. That came out wrong.”

Lucas has graduated long ago, but the guy’s words, simple as they are, make him all flustered like the virgin he long hasn’t been. He wills his blush to die down, before saying, “Thank you?”

The guy probably expects Lucas to suckerpunch him and change seats, not blush like it’s his first time and say thanks. His eyes widen ever so slightly at Lucas’s reaction. Then he smiles, gentle and hopeful.

“I’m Eliott.” He holds his hand out at the small space separating them. They shake hands; Eliott’s palm is several centimeters bigger than his own, which makes alarm bells ring in Lucas’s head, possibly activating his long latent hand, size, and height kink all at once. “If you’ll be so kind as to forget the tinder bio, I’d really appreciate it.”

“I don’t know,” Lucas muses, making a show of appraising Eliott’s face. “I’d say it would be better to bring it up at a more appropriate time. Maybe after an indoor date? Say, at the Starbucks over there?”

Eliott’s eyes flash dark as he smiles. The heat in his gut is instant and incredible, and Lucas braces himself for an interesting night at the airport.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr @pinkplanetaries /throws confetti


End file.
